1.21.2015

El hábito / Francisco Pérez Perdomo

Habit

What voice that isn’t my own
speaks for me in the suburbs
in theaters
wakes me when I sleep
with long ghost stories
startles me with alarms
when I approach the abyss
what hand that isn’t my own
(I study it and can’t decipher its message)
pulls my ears
and lifts me from certain depths that overwhelm me
like the victim of a shipwreck
what hand scratches itself for me
with nails that aren’t too long
drags me washes from my face
the morning’s impurities
purifies my skin in bathrooms
what steps taken at random
invade and fill my shoes with fever
what terribly fixed eyes
transfer my glances
This is my expiation
I don’t own the leisure of my gestures
You are in charge
I am your slave monster faithful brother
There is no truce in your threat
You kill me